


Objects in Space (Still Life)

by voleuse



Category: Firefly
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-20
Updated: 2005-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 15:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It's just an object.  It doesn't mean what you think.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Objects in Space (Still Life)

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for "Objects in Space."

_i. chair_

The chair is steadier than it's given credit for, because it rocks, wobbles, but doesn't fall.

River likes to watch it as it sits at the corner of the table, because she thinks that someday, just maybe, it will grow tired. Give up. Fall.

She also thinks it might be a metaphor, but the lines drawn between metaphors and reality aren't as solid as they're supposed to be.

She crouches next to the chair, waiting. Every once in a while, she leans forward, gives it a push with her finger. Watches its balance tip, slowly.

It has yet to fall.

_ii. knife_

She can smell the blood on it. It calls to her, wants her to taste it.

She has to wait until the others aren't around, aren't likely to be around, because they get nervous when she eyes sharp things.

She's a sharp thing herself, but nobody understands that, not really. Save for Jayne, that is, but he's oft given less credit than she is.

She likes the shape of its haft, uncompromising, cool and heavy in her hand.

She liked the way it quivered in her hand as she danced with it, slashing down, making the others sing, scream.

She looks at the blade, and sees herself.

_iii. syringe_

Sometimes, River doesn't mind seeing it all, hearing it all, feeling it all. Sometimes, when she thinks back to the way things used to be, she's horrified at how small, how gray, how dank everything is.

How can people live that way? she wonders. Without feeling the pulse of stars under their skin, without being able to slip into someone's skin and breathe along with them.

Sometimes, though, there's too much, too fast, too jagged, and it swirls and twirls her until she can't think, can't think, can't think.

She hides, presses herself into the cold and dark, because she can see the glint of metal in her mind's eye. Feels the roil of nausea in the pit of her stomach, and dreads it, even when it makes her better.

She hides, and tries to decide whether it's better to feel too much, or nothing at all.

_iv. wheel_

Even when Wash isn't at the helm, he is. River can see the impression of him, the way the wheel _wants_ his hands.

Serenity has an imagination, same as everybody else, and Serenity loves her pilot.

River wonders whether Wash loves the ship back, or whether Zoe is doomed to meet an unfortunate accident someday.

She doesn't share this thought with anyone. Simon told her those kinds of ideas make the crew uncomfortable.

_v. dress_

She sneaks into Inara's shuttle when she can. She persuades the locks on Inara's trunk to open, delves her hands into the lush fabrics within.

The threads catch on her hands, gold and silk and things she was only allowed to wear on special occasions, because she climbed trees and jumped in mud.

She ruined everything.

She ruins everything.

River bends her head to the fabric and breathes deep, smells musk and citrus and warmth. Like home.

When she's had her fill, she folds the clothing carefully, puts it back in its place, and locks the trunk behind her.

_vi. cup_

It's an experiment, except she doesn't like to use words like that. They make her think of cold metal, quiet darkness, and pain.

Broken down into components, it sounds remarkably like where she is now, but she doesn't think of it like that.

It's not experiment, then, when she fills her cup with water, stares into it, and wishes she could see the future.

_If wishes were horses, we'd all be eatin' steak._

She looks into the water, and wishes.

For what, she doesn't know.

_vii. hatch_

Doorways frighten her. Not what they represent, not the uncompromising _change_ of them.

No, they frighten her because she's never sure when she might fall. When her feet might fail her, stutter against the paint, trip her, make her stumble.

She reaches her hands out, braces herself against the frame, imagines the sickening lurch, the impact of shoulder to metal, the whoosh as air leaves her lungs, the sting of abraded skin.

She sees it happen, every time she steps through a hatch, but it never comes to pass.

She knows it's only a matter of time.

_viii. suit_

She's not supposed to be in here. At least, she probably wouldn't be allowed, if they knew.

It's important to be here, though, important to be right here, prying into the lockers and prodding at the space-suits.

River pulls a suit out, lays it out on the floor, arranges its empty limbs with deliberation. Then, she finds the matching helmet and aligns it with the suit, setting it a foot from the neck.

She kneels, then lies belly-down, fitting her body to the position of the suit. Props her chin on the floor so she looks directly into the helmet's faceplate, and smiles at her reflection.

This is important, she knows, so she lies still on the floor and learns the suit's language.

_ix. window_

He's getting closer.

She can feel the breath of him, clammy and wanting against the nape of her neck.

Closer and closer.

She clambers onto the table, kicking aside a mug, spilling the liquid in it.

It's an arbitrary movement, she knows, elevating herself four and a half feet. It won't allow her to see him any more than standing flat on the floor did. Not a logical choice, not at all, but one that she makes anyway.

She cranes her neck back, looks up, another arbitrary direction, and strains her eyes looking through the glass.

If she can see him, just maybe, she can scare him away.

Greed, avarice, they spill from his mind, and she clucks her tongue at it.

Poor little man.

He doesn't get a happy ending.

_x. gun_

It skitters when her foot brushes against it, slides on the floor, clacks like breaking wood, but not.

_It's just an object._

She expects it too weigh her hand down, pull her to the ground with the _meaning_ of it.

Instead, it's almost light. Loving. It likes her touch, her scrutiny.

This is a tool, she knows, and one she respects. One she can control.

Fearing it is illogical. Counterproductive. Fear makes it dangerous to use.

Fear.

She opens her eyes again, and it's everywhere, in everyone. Filling their voices, wrapping around their bodies.

_It's just an object._

They'll need it soon enough.


End file.
